


crush

by euriele



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, Blood and Gore, Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 01:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1879242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euriele/pseuds/euriele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things on Sidewinder go a little differently in this universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	crush

He dives aside to avoid the shots from the Brute Shot. He lands in a crouch, pivots and sees the Meta charging straight for him. The Meta holds the blade of the Brute Shot up, slashes at Wash but Wash parries the blow with his knife. Using the Meta’s shock to his advantage, he slices the Meta in the shoulder and goes to slice him across the chest but the Meta jumps backwards, activating his cloaking device as he does.

Wash stands, blood-stained blade in hand and eyes on the snow. He sees the snow shifting less than fifty feet in from of him, sees the shimmer of the Meta’s shape. He flips the blade over in his hand, holding the blade between his fingers like Connie taught him and throws it right at the Meta. It strikes the Meta between his chest plate and shoulder plate, breaking through the unprotected Kevlar suit.

The Meta roars as the blood bursts from his shoulder. He tears the knife out, throws it into the snow. Wash lifts his rifle, aims to take a shot and only sees the grenade flying at him at the last second. It explodes in the snow at his feet, sends him flying back into the Warthog at the edge of the cliff with a scream of pain.

He rolls over onto his front, tasting copper in his mouth. He can feel that his ribs are broken, already has shrapnel in his chest from the blast earlier. He stares up at the sky, tries and wills himself to stand up when he sees the Meta shift into his peripheral vision. His head turns, watches with wide-eyes as the Meta lifts the downed Warthog off of the ground and holds it straight above his head. He stands above Wash, and Wash can see the car’s front angling downwards towards him.

“Maine,” he chokes, feeling the blood running from the corner of his mouth. He looks up at the golden visor of the Meta’s helmet, hopefully making eye contact with the thing that used to be his best friend. “Maine, please.”

The Meta doesn’t waver. He gets ready to throw it.

“Maine -!”

 

*

 

It’s Doc who brings up the topic of Wash after Epsilon goes into the capture unit. They all know that Epsilon isn’t coming back out. Texas is gone and the Meta’s dead, disappeared off the edge of the cliff along with the Warthog that Sarge attached him too. Doc doubts even the Meta could survive that.

So now he’s looking for Wash, the man who’d been their enemy and had become their ally at the last second. He’s not seen him, and he’s getting worried. He knows he shouldn’t be worried about a man that held him hostage. Call it Stockholm Syndrome if you will, but Doc was concerned for the man’s well-being, considering he’d been taking a good beating from the Meta.

He runs out of the base and skids to a stop in front of Tucker, who’s stood with the Reds whilst Caboose sits beside the capture unit, desperately talking to it as if he’s going to coax Epsilon out of it.

“Where’s Washington?” Doc asks, looking from Tucker to each of the Reds in turn.

Tucker immediately looks down at his feet. Sarge shifts uncomfortably. Doc arches an eyebrow, his worry starting to mount.

“Tucker –“

“I’ll show you.” Doc’s not sure that he’s ever heard Tucker talk in such a serious tone.

He follows Tucker down the hill, the Reds right on his tail. There’s a grey figure in the snow, lying with his visor faced upwards at the sky and surrounded by blood. He knows it’s bad already.

When he’s finally crouched down next to Wash, he wishes he’d never asked.

Wash’s chest plate had caved inwards. His Kevlar suit had split open. His abdomen was gone, his intestines and stomach splattered on the snow. His chest and his legs were no longer attached. Doc can see the stretched strands of sinew and muscle. Doc can even see the bones poking out from beneath the black suit. Wash was long since dead. He’d died a death that no one deserved, not even him. Doc starts felt sick.

Simmons shares his sentiment. He immediately tugs off his helmet and dived aside, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the snow whilst Grif crouches down beside him, rubbing his back soothingly whilst looking quite green in the face himself. Sarge has to walk away, has to walk back up the cliff towards Caboose whilst Tucker stays beside Doc.

“I hear about what he did,” Tucker says, his tone sombre. “I know he shot Donut and Lopez and kidnapped Simmons and held you hostage, but no one deserves that.”

Doc fumbles with the clasp of his helmet, tugs it off and rubs at his pale face, runs his shaking hands through his hair. He looks at Wash’s helmet, at the grey metal stained with fresh blood and the cracked orange visor. One of the shards has fallen out, revealing part of Wash’s still open eyes.

Doc reaches for Wash’s helmet.

“What are you doing?” Tucker asks as Doc unclasps the helmet with a hiss.

“I’ve never seen his face,” Doc says. His voice is shaky. “And, his eyes are open. I need to close them.”

He yanks the helmet off.

Whilst he’d been dragged around the desert by Wash, he’d tried imagining what Wash looked like beneath his helmet. He’d built up this image of an older man; a lot of scars and stubble and dark hair.

He’d not been expecting bright blonde hair that stood out at odd angles, the black roots coming through. He had not been expecting a man of obvious Chinese descent, eyes the colour of storm clouds. A couple of moles on his cheek, a scar cutting through his left eyebrow. He’d not been expecting Washington’s rather young age. He couldn’t have been a day over thirty-five.

And he’d not been expecting the look of terror on Wash’s face. He tried to imagine it from Washington’s perspective: someone you’d known for years and considered a close friend standing over you, ready to crush you with a Warthog. He looks down at Wash’s face, looks at the wide eyes, the mouth wide open in what was obviously a scream. There’s blood bubbling at the back of Wash’s mouth, more of it congealing along his chin, cheeks and in his hair.

He runs his hand over his face again, presses his glasses against his nose to the point where it was painful and just forces himself to breathe in and out.

“Jesus, he’s not that old,” Tucker says. “Mid- to late-thirties, would you say?”

“Yeah,” Doc says shakily. He breathes in and out a couple more times, forces himself not to panic before he pulls at the zipper of Washington’s suit, yanks it down and exposes the base of Wash’s neck.

“Ugh, dude –“

“Gotcha,” Doc mumbles, looping his finger around the silver chain he was searching for. He pulls the dog tags into view, pulls them over Wash’s head as gently as he can and examines them.

 

_CHURCH,_

_DAVID A._

_619 – 78 – 7011_

_O POSITIVE_

_NO RELIGION_

“Never would’ve pegged him as a David,” Doc mumbles, turning the tags over in his hands.

“David? Really?” Tucker asks.

“Your first name is ‘Lavernius’.”

“Says the guy called ‘Frank’.”

Doc ignores him, wipes a droplet of blood off of the tags. He looks back down at Wash, finally leans forwards and gently closes Wash’s mouth before pressing his index finger and thumb against Wash’s eyelids and slowly closed them. He leans back, looks down at the tags in his hand before pulling them over his head and tucking them beneath his suit. He can feel them pressing against collarbone.

He makes the decision to never take them off.

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by this tumblr post
> 
> http://ohgrif.tumblr.com/post/90455985883/soaringsparrows-i-saw-a-post-going-round-about


End file.
